Just a Lab Tech
by BritLitChick
Summary: Wouldn't you rather admire Sherlock for what he did at the Christmas party than despise him for it, and feel better for Molly too? You'll also get to watch as John attempts to explain straight sex to Sherlock - all philosophy, not graphic. Takes place during the six months that Irene Adler is missing. Author's notes on my profile page for those interested.
1. Chapter 1

"I'm sorry, sir, just the one room is still available," the clerk behind the counter said.

John Watson hesitated. Sherlock Holmes said briskly, reaching past him, "That will be sufficient, thank you," and passed over his card. The clerk ran the card, reading the screen confirmation. As he handed it back to Sherlock, he smiled and said, "I see it won't be a problem."

As they walked away, Watson grumbled. "What _is_ it about our being flat mates that makes everyone think we are a couple?"

"Why do you think the clerk knew we were flat mates, before he said we were a couple?" Holmes asked, absently. "No, wait, I've got it: he saw that we use the same cleaners" - he indicated their coats, draped still in their plastic coverings over their bags, since the day was warm – "and noted that when I brought us both coffee, I didn't need to ask whether you took sugar. And of course he heard us use each other's first names as we came in. There is hope for the ordinary man yet," he said.

"Either that, or the address that came up when he ran your card was the same as the one I had just written in the register," Watson said simply. Holmes gave him one of his level looks. "See? I'm learning."

"Just testing you," Sherlock grumbled under his breath, picking up his bag and coat and walking away. Watson smiled. "You just can't admit it, can you," he said under his breath.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Watson asked a minute later as they found their room.

Holmes, his mind already four topics further on, asked, "Does what bother me?"

"Our being thought of as a couple."

"Why should it bother me? You know I don't care what other people think."

Sherlock used the key to open the door to their room and walked ahead of John into it. But before John could frame a reply, he turned and said gravely, "Most people. You are coming to be an exception. I know it does bother _you_."

"Because I just said so?" John said, startled that Sherlock seemed to finally be giving the issue his full attention.

Sherlock spoke in the rapid-fire way he used when he was pronouncing the results of an analysis. "It has always bothered you. You try to be nonchalant and pragmatic about it, because despite having been in the military, which has conservative views on the subject, you are a modern man and realize no disrespect to our characters is usually meant, you really are secure in your heterosexuality, and you are not attracted to me in that way. But unlike me, you care what people think, not only about you, but also about me. You worry that this constant misunderstanding is costing you chances with women. Finally, you do mention it more than occasionally."

Watson stared back. "Well, I suppose that sums it up nicely," he said. "I hadn't thought you'd noticed" – Holmes looked sharply at him – "all right, that you'd _cared_ enough to give it a second thought."

Holmes looked at him for a long moment. Finally, he said, "We spoke of this when we first met. Now we know each other better, so for the record I suppose I should lay out the obvious." Watson listened, and then began to tense as Holmes went on. "You are my friend. My only friend. Of course I care. You've taught me how, with your excellent example. You have become more dear to me than any person on Earth ever has." _Dear to me. Not a phrase I've ever heard him use before._ John shifted uncomfortably under Sherlock's intense gaze, hoping he was wrong about what was coming.

"But I don't have romantic or sexual feelings toward you," Holmes said, watching Watson's face to be sure he was understood. Watson let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Nor toward anyone." He paused before adding quietly, "I'm not sure I can."


	2. Chapter 2

The two men looked at each other; a long moment passed. For Watson, embarrassment about the topic of conversation and worry about where it had been heading was replaced with compassion for his friend.

"I'm almost always too busy to even think about it," Holmes said, turning to begin unpacking his things. "But I do notice. Of course I notice. Everyone seems to think it is so important, everyone is always in a romantic relationship or trying to be, always so eager for sex, even if they already have good work and a good life, good friends or colleagues or companions. It seems to be all anyone ever thinks about, while I spend all my time thinking of everything _except_ that. As I have tried since childhood to distinguish myself from "everyone" and "anyone", it seems my thought patterns have clearly developed along other lines. However, I now believe that I am probably missing something. After visiting Miss Adler's house, I find that the conclusion is inescapable."

_You think?_ John thought, sarcastically, but carefully didn't say. "So," John asked, tentatively, "You never get sexual thoughts? When a lady walks by, you don't feel anything? Ever?"

"Naturally the body reacts," Holmes said, dismissively. Watson tried not to smile, thinking again about the visit at Miss Adler's home. "When it is a particularly fit woman, not a man," he added. "A brain stem function, nothing more. Sometimes the distraction can be quite strong, very inconvenient. But everyone has sex, apparently anyone can do it, at any time, and they often do, it seems. But only I can do what I do. The prospect of sex is always so much less important than what I am already engaged in. It's always a better use of my time to ignore the … feeling … until it passes and I can focus on the task at hand again. Perhaps, in the spirit of research, someday I should choose otherwise."

"Research? Sherlock, you can't go about it that way. It isn't like that. Take some time off, man. London can do without you for a day. If ever you did want to try, though," he said thoughtfully, "You probably have more opportunities than you know," Watson said.

"I am good-looking, you mean," Holmes replied. "Women like that, I suppose."

"Not just good-looking. Sherlock, you are tall, lean, handsome, mysterious, all cheekbones and dark curly hair. You're elegant, you dress well, you are serious, and don't so very obviously chat women up only to get it on with them. A woman's dream, if all she had to go on was how you look and doesn't get too strong a dose of how you behave."

"What have cheekbones got to do with anything?" Holmes asked. "If women find men who are _not_ trying to have sex with them so attractive, why don't more men act like I do, then?"

"Some men do try, some even very sincerely, but they can't pull it off for very long,"

Watson continued. "It's only after he's got the sex, once that's taken care of for awhile, that a man really begins to see a woman," Watson patiently explained. _I can't believe I have to explain all this,_ he thought. "Most women understand, and cut them some slack, give them credit for trying. But they probably want a break from that every now and again, to first be seen by an attractive man."

"Seen?"

"Yes, she wants to be seen, to be recognized for herself, her other qualities, and there should be a relationship, tender feelings, maybe even love. And the sex that they both want comes afterward, ideally. Or so I understand." _I've got to get this right for him,_ Watson thought. _I hope he's really listening._

"Sentiment again?"

"Yeah, sentiment, right."

Sherlock considered this, and then snapped, "Altogether a completely irrational process. No wonder I have been avoiding it."

Watson tried to change the subject with a cheery question. "Right then, that's sorted. So, who gets the bed?"

"I do, of course. You're on the sofa."

"Why," John said, annoyed, "Do you always get the bed and I always get the sofa?"

Holmes looked genuinely surprised. "Because I am always taller, of course."


	3. Chapter 3

At dinner, Holmes went back to their conversation. "What people think of me I never care. However, since you do care, and I am concerned for you … you must have noticed my efforts to clarify your orientation to others. What I utterly fail to understand is how no one seems to believe me."

"Believe you what?" John asked.

"Believe me when I tell them you are not gay, and not interested in me, of course," Holmes replied.

"You tell people that? Whom have you told?" John asked, surprised.

"Everyone," Holmes said, with a sweep of his hand. "All the time. I practically shout it from the rooftops, for all the good it does. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Anderson, Donovan …"

John gaped. "And where was I when you were doing this?"

"Right there, of course. I can't imagine why they don't listen, with both of us saying it," Holmes said.

John thought. "Um, when was this exactly?" he asked.

"Almost every time one of them comes to the flat, for instance," Holmes said. "Or when we see one another professionally."

John stared back, astonished. "But, you don't!" he exclaimed. "I would certainly have remembered!"

"Do you mean to tell me that you aren't listening either?" Holmes said. "I make rather a point of it. I talk about your Internet porn, making sure it's clear the pictures are of women, for example." John blinked.

"Or mention a long list of the names of the people you've dated, all female, when there's a group listening," Holmes continued.

"Yeah, you can stop doing that, please, Sherlock," he began, beginning to understand. But Sherlock kept going. "Or point out that you write poetry by email, always to women."

"Sherlock!" Holmes stopped and looked at Watson.

"Sherlock, that's not telling anyone anything. That sort of … talk … is just background noise to most people."

"Background noise?" Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. What they are paying attention to is that we live in the same flat. That we seem to understand each other, and well, that I haven't killed you yet," Watson said, half-seriously.

"That you are the only person who can stand to be around me for very long," Holmes said, completely seriously.

"Well, yes," Watson had to agree.

"I suppose they conclude that there must be something else, some strong attraction for you that keeps you near me, something they can understand," Holmes mused.

"What, that you are a wizard in bed?" Watson started to laugh, but stifled it when Holmes didn't seem to share the joke. "Sherlock, most people don't "conclude" anything, not the way you do. They just, well, sort of half-look, make an assumption on scant evidence, and move on. And, you're right. Their "conclusion" is likely to be based on sex. Remember, it's still a bit spicy for two men to be a couple, still nonstandard, if you know what I mean. If the men concerned are not completely open about it, people like to make some kind of mildly scandalous secret out of it. They _want_ to make that conclusion, regardless of evidence to the contrary. Even if they are actually told otherwise, they just wink knowingly."

Holmes considered this explanation. "How does anything else, any other thought processes other than those leading to sex, ever get done?" he wondered.

Watson laughed. "The mind does boggle," he said.

"Mine doesn't," Holmes said, seriously. "But I've observed that it seems to require a lot of effort for others to keep things straight."

"Well, anyhow, after they spot you and me together and the conclusion is made, the women do get so disappointed," Watson commented. "Hadn't you noticed?" he teased.

"Why on earth would they be disappointed to find that you are homosexual?" Holmes said.

"Thanks a lot," Watson said.

"I've missed something again, haven't I," Holmes said. Watson rolled his eyes. "What?"

"It isn't me they are disappointed about," Watson said irritably, "it's you." At Holmes' surprised look, he added sourly, "Oh, women love _you_, just the _thought_ of you."

"Me? Why? No matter how I look, they must quickly realize that I don't see women for themselves, at least not the way you say they want me to. And love from me is clearly … unlikely."

"Well, perhaps it's exactly because you are so unattainable. A challenge. Perhaps women want a turn at making the effort to get sex. They want to figure you out, to be the one woman who could turn Sherlock Holmes' head. Yes, Irene is a good example."

"I wasn't thinking of Irene," Holmes objected.

"Yes, you were. And I'm sure she knows where you stand on the spectrum, that's her specialty and she was taking data, I'm sure. But if other women think you are gay and "taken", well, most tend to respect that, and sadly go off to find other men to chase."

Holmes thought about this. "A challenge. To think," he mused. "Now that is the first sensible thing you have told me about all this," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe I need to talk to a woman."

"What?"

"Talk to a woman. Get her to explain what goes on in their heads. How they think. A guide, so to speak."

"Sherlock, you can't possibly. I can't imagine such a conversation. Who would you even talk to, whose opinion you respect? Whatever could she say that you would listen to?" John asked. "Not Irene, surely? She's never give you a straight answer on anything, even if you knew how to contact her."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

John followed Sherlock into the lab at St. Bart's. He saw him head straight for Molly Hooper, and recalled their conversation. Agitated, he dashed around to block Sherlock's way. "No," he said. "Don't you dare!"

Sherlock looked down at John. "What? Why?" Across the lab, Molly looked up.

Seeing her, Watson whispered urgently, "Because it's cruel, you idiot. You know she's been interested in you."

"Then she is precisely the person I need to talk with," Sherlock said, walking around his friend toward Molly. "And I'm not an idiot." He had to stop again as Watson grabbed his arm.

"No!" John hissed. "You've made it _perfectly_ clear that _you_ are not interested in _her_. So don't go torturing the poor woman, giving her false hope!"

"It's all right," Molly called from her workstation. "John, really. Sherlock and I spoke on the phone earlier. He _has_ made it clear, many times, and he did again this morning. And it's okay, truly it is. It was … just a girlish crush, anyway. I got over it myself weeks ago. I'm embarrassed about it now."

John glared at Sherlock as the tall man walked over to Molly. "He made you feel embarrassed, and you think it's okay. Well, I'll just leave you two to it, then," he said angrily. He didn't leave, though. He stalked to the table across from them, dragged a stool noisily over the floor to him, and sat on it, arms crossed, determined to defend Molly from Sherlock's thoughtlessness as best he could.

"So, what is it exactly that you want to know?" Molly asked Sherlock.

"How women think," Sherlock answered.

"Think about what?" she said.

"Sex," he answered. Watson rolled his eyes. _Here we go_, he thought.

Molly didn't seem fazed, though. _Maybe she really is over him_, John thought. _Sensible girl_. She asked Sherlock, curious, "Why do you want to talk to _me_ about it?"

"Because," Sherlock said evenly, "you are the only woman who _does_ talk to me. Voluntarily. More than once, I mean."

"Really?"

"Yes. You are quite irritatingly persistent," Sherlock replied. John caught his eye, shaking his head.

Molly frowned, but then continued. "I actually meant, what makes you think I am such an expert on, um, sex, I mean, how women think about sex, right? - that a consulting detective thinks it's worthwhile to … consult … with me about it?"

"Do try to form your sentences completely before you speak," Sherlock snapped. He was startled by John's stool scraping back. He looked over to see John standing, fists balled.

"And you, sir, do try to be civil to the lady, especially since you are asking her to do you a favor and to talk about … personal topics!"

Sherlock was taken aback, but had the grace to try to look slightly abashed. He was almost successful.

"I'm sorry," Molly said. "I was just surprised, a question like that, from you. And then I started thinking about it and talking at the same time."

Sherlock regarded her. "Probably a poor idea in your case." He ignored John's glare. "John tells me that women find me attractive, despite my obvious attempts to distance myself from their attentions." Molly opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and merely nodded. "So, what is it that women see in me that they think is worth pursuing anyway? What were _you_ seeing in _me_, until I changed your mind?"

"Until I changed my mind," Molly corrected, absently. "I can't really say. We, or at least I, see a man, and beyond how he actually looks, I just, well, I just know I'm interested in him, I want to get to know him better. Maybe he'll turn out to be someone I can love, who can love me."

"This is preposterous," Sherlock said, stepping away. "No thought, no process at all. I won't learn anything useful here."

"Just a minute, give her time to think, Sherlock. You know, _think_?" John said. Molly was indeed thinking, eyes a little distant.

"I wonder why I do, though? What do I see that makes me think that, to make those choices?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he stepped closer again. "On what evidence?" she mused.

"Evidence," he scoffed. "What do you know of evidence?"

Molly and John exchanged looks. _All the long hours, working on evidence here in the lab with him, and he didn't notice? He never wanted help analyzing it, never wanted anyone's opinion, just wanted us to be quiet. We learned to just hand him the processed samples._

"I do the port-mortems," she pointed out instead, simply. "I'm trained particularly to look for, collect, analyze, and control evidence, all in a way that will hold up in court."

"Unlike your slapdash so-called "techniques" that often destroy its provenance," Watson put in.

"But you're just the lab tech –" Sherlock began. Then he stepped back. "Or that's what – no, that's only when we're here, isn't it. You've been instructed—"

"By the hospital to give you every courtesy when you need to use my lab, yes," she finished. "And never say "just a lab tech". It's their skills that provide you with the high-quality data you need." Watson noticed that, for once, she was speaking firmly, less awkwardly every minute Sherlock was actually talking _to_ her instead of _at_ her.

Sherlock wasn't listening any more. _My lab._ Not _the lab_. _Their skills._ Not _my skills_. In his mind, he was looking at reports, post-mortem reports, every one he had ever looked at when he was here. He remembered them all, yet he hadn't really seen them when they had been in his hand. The signature at the bottom, he had never really … not really … noticed … _Dr. M(unreadable) Ho(unreadable), MD_.


	5. Chapter 5

"Yes, Sherlock, they gave you a doctor, a proper doctor, to help you process evidence," John said, pointedly. "She doesn't just _do_ post-mortems, Sherlock, she _leads_ them, she's the one who signs them off with the official cause of death. Didn't you know that?" John was grinning. "He's been wrong, wrong about you all along, Molly. Oh, this is good. Don't blink, it's rare and fleeting, and he probably won't even admit it ever happened."

Sherlock popped out of his reverie. "Miss Hooper," he began, and then, at a look from John, he cleared his throat and addressed her again. "Doctor Hooper, I have underestimated you. I will not do so again. Please continue. You were speaking of evidence."

"Aaaand, that's all you'll ever get out of him, Doctor," John told Molly, ruefully. "Why don't you go by "Doctor Hooper", anyway?" he asked curiously. "I've only ever heard people call you "Molly", that's how you asked me to call you when we met. And your ID badge, it just says "Molly Hooper.""

"Because I work in a hospital." Watson looked blank.

Sherlock thought a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. "Yes, exactly!" Watson looked at him. "John, why don't you go by "Doctor Watson" when we're not trying to impress someone on a case or use your credentials to get in somewhere?"

John said, "Well, it's not usually relevant to the matter at hand."

"Exactly! And Dr. Hooper here, she's a pathologist, here in the morgue and lab, she doesn't see patients, well, she does see patients but they don't talk to her, not in words anyway. When she's walking around the hospital, she doesn't want people recognizing her as a doctor, because her work isn't relevant to their concerns, not yet. People like –"

"Patients who are still alive," she nodded. "And their families. They absolutely do not want to talk to the doctor who cuts up bodies when they die. And I don't want to talk to them, either. So, around St. Bart's, I'm just "Molly Hooper". Most people just assume I'm a lab tech. I actually was one, for awhile, before I decided to go to medical school."

"Your demeanor hardly suggests that you are a doctor," Sherlock mused, unaware of John's critical stare._ What did I miss? Dr. Molly Hooper, MD._ A shaky signature at the bottom of the last page. Suddenly Sherlock pictured notes, her notes, on the many papers and forms he had seen around the lab, all neat, but drawn with a trembling hand. Molly, drinking coffee from a cup with shaking hands. Molly, who preferred to work alone in the dim basement lab.

"Erethism." He said, looking at her in amazement. John looked at Molly, considering.

"Yes. My father was a doctor also. As a child I used to take thermometers from his clinic and play with the mercury. I've improved a lot, but symptoms persist," she agreed.

"Mercury poisoning," John said, softly. "Symptoms include low self-confidence, excessive shyness, awkwardness in interacting socially with others. Of course."

"Pathologists creep other people out anyway," she replied. "Even the other doctors who work upstairs. I don't exactly have a lot of friends on staff. I'm actually kind of looked down on – the doctor who works on dead people, what sort of medical challenge is that, they think. They just don't understand what it is I do, and I've found it's usually a mistake for me to talk about my work to anyone, but I'm okay with that. I don't need to strut around and have people worship me," she glanced at Sherlock, who frowned, then continued. "What I'd really like for a job perk is to be a lot better paid, actually. I could be making twice as much in private practice. But with St. Bart's budget that won't ever happen."

"So, why are you here, doing this job, when you could have higher status and better pay elsewhere?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"It interests me," she said shortly. "I'm not willing to work on things that do not interest me. I don't care how much money I could be getting. And it leaves me time for my music. It's therapy for my hands, but it helps me think when there's something about my work I haven't been able to figure out. I used to play the violin, but I can't hold proper pitch now; I can't stand that. And it's all vibrato. So now I play –"

"Piano," Sherlock said, looking at her short fingernails and thinking of the precise way he had seen her fingers move when placing slides on the microscope.

"—harpsichord, actually," Molly said. "I work on Bach a lot."

"Doctor Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, after a long pause, "You and I are going to get on just fine," he said. "Tell me more about what you know of morgue evidence, and about sex." _A sentence that would be possible only from Sherlock_, Watson thought.

Over the next few days, Watson noticed that Sherlock Holmes was spending more and more time at St. Bart's with Molly. Sometimes he checked on them, usually finding them in the lab, poring together over a petri dish or arguing about a bloody slide. Sometimes he looked in the morgue, where he often saw Sherlock bending close over a mangled body, plucking at something with tweezers while Molly pointed it out to him. Molly always waved a friendly "hello", but Sherlock, fascinated by the work in front of him, did not usually notice that he was there unless he spoke.


	6. Chapter 6

"Looks like we were wrong about Mr. Holmes," Anderson said as he and Sergeant Donovan exited the lab.

"I know what you mean," she replied, looking back through the glass in the door. "Look at him sitting there so close to Dr. Hooper, sharing a microscope with her. His arm is across the back of her chair, see? And she looks pretty cosy next to him, ah, oh, hello, Dr. Watson," she stumbled to a halt as she realized why Anderson had been poking frantically at her arm. In the reflection of the glass, she saw John Watson come up behind her to peer through it too.

"Yes, it's so nice to think that he may finally found someone who understands him," John said, genially. "I'm so pleased for him, for them both, actually. They didn't hit it off well at first. They make a good couple, don't they? Actually," he said casually, "I may need to go out to a film this evening, get back to the flat late. He did the same for me last night when the lady and I changed our plans unexpectedly." He winked. _OK, don't lay it on too thick_, he told himself. _They aren't THAT gullible._ Anderson and Donovan exchanged looks, then made their excuses and left. John thought they looked thoughtful. _Go on,_ he said to them silently. _Please, tell everyone you know. Lestrade. Everybody back at the office. Do you have Mycroft's number? Too much to hope for, I guess._

Later, John tapped Molly in the hallway outside the lab as the three of them prepared to enter it. She held back, and he told Sherlock, "You go on, we won't be a minute." Sherlock strode into the lab without even responding, eager to return to his and Molly's experiments there.

"I've never seen Sherlock so happy," he told her.

"Happy?" she asked. "Does the man even do "happy"? He's always serious, always working, so demanding of himself, and of me. And he's just as insufferable as before, still says terrible things to me without even realizing he's doing it. Or maybe he does, but doesn't care."

"I know what you mean," John said sympathetically. "But believe me when I tell you, the man is delighted to be working with you, someone who knows how to handle herself in a lab – now that he notices – and understands data like he does, a fellow scientist who isn't put off by his ways. And you. How are you doing, being around him?" he asked carefully.

"It's fine," she said. "Great. Better than what I had imagined I wanted before, actually. We're getting to be, well, friends, of a sort. He and I work well together, and things flow well in the lab when he's around. We get a lot done; I appreciate the help he gives me with my work when I'm not helping him with his. And the man actually considers what I have to say now, before rejecting it most the time and criticizing my thought process that led me to suggest it. He is teaching me so much, and I think that, every now and then, he learns something from me that he considers valuable. Not that he ever says so in in so many words. Sometimes, when work is slow, we just talk. It's … nice, when he can remember to be reasonably sociable."

"What do you talk about?" Watson asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

She laughed. "Sex, occasionally. He is so clinical about it. He knows the mechanics but can't think why any of it should be interesting. I think I'm making some headway explaining. I told him he'll have to find someone else to actually show him, though. I certainly don't volunteer!"

_He sees her_, Watson thought. _And she won't even have to sleep with him for it._

"I know too much about him, now," she continued. "He's a wonderful man, of course, amazing mind, but also quite difficult. Definitely not marriage material."

"Definitely not," Sherlock agreed, as he stuck his head out the lab door. "Coming in, Molly?"

Watson smiled. Things were going to be okay with Sherlock and Molly.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Meanwhile, somewhere nearby ..._**

"So, it's true," he said, singsong, drawling as he looked at the picture on the mobile. "The woman who has finally captured Sherlock Holmes' interest." His voice turned vicious, as it often did. "MY woman."

_I'm not your woman, I broke it off. _

_Yes, MY woman. I used you so that I could get close to him, not so that he could get close to you._

He wiped the picture from the screen with a sweep of his finger and began to text. He waited a delicious moment, and then pressed "send".


	8. Chapter 8

"No, it's the fourth isotope you're thinking of. The third one is unstable," Molly said. At the microscope, Sherlock said without looking up, "Wrong." Then, he did look up. "No, wait. Maybe, maybe, maybe right -" he leapt off the stool and began shoving papers around on the lab table, looking for one in particular. Molly smiled.

Sherlock's mobile rang, indicating a new text. "Get that, Molly," Sherlock said, busy with the papers.

She was used to being abruptly ordered about the lab by Sherlock, and often now she simply refused. It was her lab, after all. But, seeing he was in the throes of a lead, she took pity on him and fetched out the mobile from his coat pocket, flung carelessly over a stool.

"Read it to me."

Molly opened the text and read it out.

_Burn, baby, burn. _

_There will be no babies in the barrel._

_M_

She looked up. "What does that gibberish mean? Is it some kind of code?"

Sherlock, alert at the word "burn", had frozen the moment she had read out "M." "No," he said slowly.

"No? No what?"

"No, it's not code, and no, it's not gibberish. It's a message." He stood up, eyes front, hands in the air. She had learned to be quiet immediately when he did this, and to stay quiet. Always, after some hours, it resulted in an amazing insight. But this time, she didn't have to wait long. In seconds, he stood up in alarm. "No!" he nearly shouted. He seemed to have much more to say, but controlled himself with a great effort.

"Sherlock! What is it?" Molly asked, startled by the look on his face.

He was pacing now, hands to his head. "Barrels, barrels – they're made by COOPERS, another name for which is HOOPER – that's you –" he stabbed a finger in her direction, "—and he must have seen us together, or his men saw us together, and have drawn the wrong conclusions –"

"What? What conclusions?" she asked. He stopped in front of her, abruptly, and looked down at her. "That you and I are a couple," he said urgently.

"Well, incorrect, obviously, but why is that so bad?" Molly responded anxiously.

"Because, Molly, think. I've told you about "M", Moriarty, the man who has sworn to kill me. "Burn", he said. "I will burn you". Those were his words."

"It's never bothered you this much before," Molly said. "Oh … wait … no … I understand." She sat down slowly on a stool. "He means me, burn me, because he thinks I'm with you. Babies in the barrel, that's me, married or something to you, pregnant, babies …" She and Sherlock exchanged a horrified look.

"How can he have decided we were a couple?" she said. "You've only been working in here for a few days, and you wouldn't give me the time of day before."

"But I've been spending a lot of time here over those days," he replied, still agitated. He sat in a desk chair and tapped his fingertips together, rapidly. "People have been talking. John is delighted."

"John? But he knows we're not a couple."

"Yes, but he's happy that others are finally realizing that he and I are not."

She paused, thinking. "Sherlock," she said.

"Not now, Molly! Your life is in danger, and I need to think!"

"Sherlock," she repeated, looking at him.

"What?" he glared back at her.

"Sherlock, were you spending time in here to convince people you are John aren't gay? Did you … did you use me?" Molly looked steadily at him.

"No, Molly," he said, surprised. "That was a side effect. I've been coming for my own reasons. Your lab is far better equipped than my little corner in the kitchen. Your assistance with my current cases and your explanations about women have been most helpful. It's been useful to talk with an ordinary person who happens to be somewhat articulate." A pang shot through Molly's chest, but she ignored it. _He says the most horrible things, always_, she thought. _It's just him._

"You know what we have to do, then," she said, reluctantly.

"Yes, obviously."

They both sat in silence. Finally Molly spoke. "The Christmas party, tonight."

"Yes, perfect," he replied.

"But how will Moriarty know?" she asked. "I hardly think you've invited him."

"All of John's and my associates will be there, and some of yours. Be sure to come after everyone else has arrived. I will be sure to make it loud, very public, very ugly, very awkward. Mrs. Hudson will be sure to mention it to the Baker Street gossips at the shop. It will be the talk of the station in the morning," he said, distastefully. "Obviously, very, very obviously, _not_ a couple. He'll find out, quickly enough." he said grimly. "Molly, you can't go home before the party tonight, you realize that? And you'll need to spend the rest of the afternoon upstairs, around people, near the security station. Tell them you're being followed, put them on alert. It might save precious seconds."

"All right, I'll go the cafeteria. I'll have my flat mate bring my things. People will think awful things of you, you know," she said. "If we … if you do it right. The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who can be so heartlessly cruel to a woman, just with his words. "

Sherlock missed the implication, but said, "Given my reputation, they won't have any trouble believing it, I'm sure," he replied. "I'll try to make sure they won't soon forget it."

He paused. "They won't think much of you, either. Pity the pretty pathologist, destroyed for her pathetic schoolgirl crush, in front of all her friends."

Molly looked over at him, speechless. Then, she saw it. The tiny tug at the corner of his lips. "You said that on purpose, didn't you?" she said, incredulous. _Pretty?_

"Got you," he said, breaking out into a rare, full smile. _He does look beautiful,_ she thought. _God, those cheekbones._

She started to laugh. "Mr. Holmes, you are a terrible man."

"So people keep telling me," he agreed. "Obviously, I don't care."

"You could be a good friend, though," she said. "If you tried. If the person could just learn to ignore you when you're being awful anyway."

He came over and stood before her, serious again. "I want you to listen to me now. I am not normally given to speaking like this, but it will be important to you, I recognize that." He took a deep breath, and then continued. "I apologize, sincerely, in advance, for what I'm going to say to you tonight. It will look like I utterly despise you and always have, so that everyone will be forced to conclude that they must have been completely wrong about us being a couple. I'm going to do my utmost to especially convince Moriarty. You must strive to appear surprised and suitably upset. If you can manage a comeback, that might help. I'll pretend to be forced into apologizing, but it will be quite lame."

Finished, he stepped back and took his coat from the stool. "I regret that I won't be able to take further advantage of your assistance in the lab. This death threat is most inconvenient." He turned and strode out, her eyes following.

"Goodbye, Doctor Molly Hooper, MD," he called back over his shoulder.

"Fourth isotope, Mr. Holmes," she called after him. "Must have been."

Not turning, but waving her off dismissively as he walked, "Wrong."

-END-

* * *

**Author's Note: It seems this story didn't end on quite a definitive note. I've had many people sign up to follow it after it was posted complete. The idea is that you know how it goes from here - they meet that evening at 221B, Sherlock protects Molly by being awful to her in front of everyone, and she doesn't end up being one of those targeted by snipers. Thanks for all your interest!**


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